Talking to Strangers
by theFaun
Summary: Jack Frost has been alone for 300 years with no one to turn to, and desperate times call for desperate measures. When the malevolent spirit Pitch Black shows an interest in Jack's existence, he is faced with a choice-continue living in solitude, or allow himself to be the Boogeyman's charge. Canon divergent AU, set before the movie. T to be safe for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Ok, I was literally up until 6 in the morning writing this. I started writing an angsty drabble a few days ago inspired by Sleepsong by Bastille's lyrics:**

"**Oh you go to sleep on your own**

**and you wake each day with your thoughts  
And it scares you being alone  
It's a last resort  
All you want is someone onto whom you can cling  
Your mother warned of strangers and the dangers they may bring  
Your dreams and memories are blurring into one  
The scenes which hold the waking world slowly come undone"**

**Anyways, yeah, great song, check it out. Getting back to the point; I really wasn't expecting this drabble to go anywhere, but last night I decided to revisit it and this is what happened. Of course, I added a bit more to the angst, mwah. I guess this is sort of an AU, but not a wild one or anything. Just diverges from canon. Chapter two is already well on its way to being completed, so expect an update within the next couple days, a week at most. Enjoy! Reviews, follows and faves are greatly appreciated as they are the only reward an author gets. If you take a quick second to drop some words in the little box below, I'll be much obliged! Thanks. /AN**

**Chapter 1 - Dreams and Memories**

Jack Frost was used to being alone.

He spent his nights and shared his tree branches only with the phantoms that drifted outwards, born of his breath, (more like phantoms of phantoms—the winter spirit's inner temperature didn't clash with that of the icy air outside much to form as distinguished clouds as a mortal's breath would) and when he was in a particularly good mood, he called upon the skies above for some flurries to keep him company. He had spent this particular evening dusting Burgess—a town he loved dearly, for it was as old as he—with the season's first snowfall. Already he had laid down a good three inches and had insured good cloud cover for tomorrow; more beautiful flurries were in store. Tonight, Jack felt content and comfortably exhausted after the right mixture of work and play.

However, there were days—years, in fact; 300+ years was, decidedly, _far_ too long to be in existence-when Jack was filled with a mixture of loneliness and hopelessness so deep and so dark that it threatened to consume his very core and swallow him up. Not even wreaking havoc in the form of winter weather chased it away—and that was unusual for Jack Frost.

These were the days when the winter sky remained gloomy and grey, threatening snow or rain, but never quite grasping the motivation to deliver. These days, he felt like he was drowning, unable to breathe, unable to reach out. In nightmares, this feeling manifested itself as he dreamt of sinking all the way to the bottom of a dark, watery abyss, smothered and suffocated by the icy depths from every direction. The winter spirit didn't sleep excessively, or necessarily often—his energy level usually hovered at a constant buzz that kept him quite active-but on nights and lazy afternoons when he did chance a rest on a snow-covered branch or rooftop, his descent into shallow sleep proved fitful and unsatisfying. These long nights were filled with either frighteningly vivid visions, or simply a cloudy void where his subconscious thoughts drifted idly, trapped in limbo between the closed lids of their owner who hovered between dozing and REM sleep.

Of course, these melancholy spells stemmed from the fact that Jack wasn't visible to anyone. It wasn't just the fact that he was invisible that ate at his usually playful and mischievous state of mind; it was the fact that he didn't _exist_ to anyone. Nobody really knew him but the moon, the huge orb of pale light that had served as the winter spirit's first comfort when he awoke in this world. As much as it should, Jack always thought, that connection didn't make much of a difference.

Sure, children enjoyed his snow days, instigated snowball fights and sledding escapades, but looking at the big picture, Jack knew his sliver of an existence was unfulfilling at best. Worse, as much as he tried to distract himself from his own loneliness with whirling blizzards or snowstorms, his enthusiasm while completing his daily routines around the globe waned over time similarly to the cold, careless moon that had put him there without an explanation. He supposed he was selfish for yearning to be seen-surely other spirits weren't given attention from mortals 24/7. Despite trying to brush off the gravity of his situation, however, Jack couldn't help but entertain the thought that somehow what he had to face was _worse._ He remembered the horror and disbelief that had shot through him like a bullet that first night; remembered the shocking sensation like it was yesterday. That was the first time a child had run right _through_ him; as much as he wished it would, that feeling didn't fade much over time.

What replaced the horror these days was a cold, empty feeling of hollowness every time he wasn't seen, even though he had grown to expect it. Why couldn't he just be content with showering cities and towns with the snow and ice that resulted in chaos children's laughter as they frolicked on a snow day? "_That would make this situation a whole lot easier to deal with,"_ Jack thought as he slid halfheartedly off of a snow covered branch to land crouched on the ground below, fingertips brushing the light dusting of snow that coated the forest floor. He straightened with a sigh, his staff held casually in his right hand where it leaned into the crook of his arm. The familiarity of the dark, frost-varnished wood was his only comfort on long nights, and he had grown attached to his shepherd's crook—it was more than just a weapon.

The winter spirit scanned the quiet scene of the surrounding forest purely out of routine before exhaling disapprovingly at the empty expanse he was faced with. _Of course it was empty_. What was he even looking for? No children, or adults for that matter, would be out in the forest this close to dark. Jack estimated it was around 6 PM, noting the sinking sun that was barely visible through the barricade of closely knitted trees as it left a soft, orange glow—it's farewell for the night-on the crisp layer of snow. The last of the sun's rays were accompanied by a golden glimmer of hope that emanated from Jack Frost himself, a spark of a hope had stuck with him for all of his years on this Earth; it was the hope that he, for once, was not alone. That is why Jack stubbornly refused to stop scanning his surroundings after rests, brief or long, and that is why he happened to be alert for the whisper of a noise coming from a distance behind his left shoulder. It was a simple sound, but it brought a prickling sensation crawling over the nape of Jack's neck and knots to his stomach.

It was the crack of a twig that had caught the boy's attention; though not of one broken carelessly in passing by an animal. The sound was a deliberate, single _snap_ that echoed in the seemingly empty forest. Jack whirled around, staff held at chest-height and at the ready, knees slightly bent and poised to spring into action, eyes narrowed as he scanned the dimly lit forest for the source of the noise.

In seconds, the winter spirit laid eyes on the mysterious source of the sound-and immediately he wished he hadn't.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Ok, this chapter isn't as complete as I would like it to be, but I felt bad after making you guys wait, so I'm posting it. I might add a bit to the end of this chapter for a little more closure, but don't expect much! It's been a rough week, going back to school after winter break sucks as always, and parents are…parents. Anyway…the next chapter will be from Pitch's perspective, so you'll hopefully get the feel of some ulterior motives at work here. **** Yeah, enjoy! Follows, faves and reviews are GREATLY appreciated! /AN**

**Chapter 2 – Loneliness Crawls**

A shadowy figure, surrounded by a shifting dark cloud penetrated only by two gleaming amber orbs, stood (if one could call it standing) under the arch of two saplings no more than a couple staff-lengths before Jack. The intensity in his (it's?) eyes matched that of a wolf stalking a rabbit, and this predator was startlingly close. Jack leapt back out of instinct, almost tripping on his feet in the process, a yelp of alarm tumbling from his mouth before he could stop it. A toothy grin crept smugly across the stranger's concealed face and the shadows surrounding the figure writhed as if dancing, fueled by the boy's uncertainty and surprise. The boy straightened a bit, and returned his staff to the defensive position level with his chest. He hastily fought to regain his composure as he met burning amber eyes, which glinted like two candles in the dim light, with his own icy blue glare, a mixture of defiance and wary curiosity written in the white-haired teen's expression. The menacing amber orbs, masked in a shifting, shimmering cloud of what looked like—was that black sand?—blinked at him before the owner of the eyes; a tall, shadowy-grey man, materialized between the two saplings. Tendrils of the black sandy stuff curled and uncurled at the man's feet as if beckoning—no, _daring—_the winter spirit to take a step closer.

Jack's eyes widened behind snow-white bangs when the figure stepped out of the shadows, but he was consciously aware of the fact he desperately wanted to appear unafraid. This was important when coming into contact with other spirits, and although he didn't have much experience, he had managed to pick up some street smarts in his 300-odd years of being Jack Frost. The small number of immortals he had come into contact with over the years—spirits that usually disapproved of Jack's way of making mischief-received full helpings of sarcasm and attitude from the teen, and had, for the most part, left him alone.

This one was different, however; it was clearly malevolent. Along with the shadows emanating from the strange man rushed gales of cold unease that washed and crashed over Jack like a tidal wave, causing his innards to twist and his mind to scream. His instincts yelled at him to run, to get away, but Jack had made a habit of acting on impulse and shoving away even the most sensible thoughts; so he stood his ground, staring down the dark spirit and not bothering to wait for the man to make the first move. After a moment of tense silence, Jack unclenched his jaw and spoke boldly, hoping his words came out more confident sounding than he was feeling.

"Who goes there?"

Shadows fell from around the man's body and twisted downward to creep slowly towards Jack's bare feet in response. The source of the noise that had startled Jack was now revealed. In the man's hand lay a brittle, dead twig, snapped from a nearby tree in passing. _"He did that on purpose,"_ Jack thought with a sudden sickening realization. The mysterious dark spirit had _wanted_ to be seen. As if on cue, the grey hand gripping the small stick dropped it carelessly to the forest floor.

Jack could now make out the man's details more clearly; his face had a grey complexion and was gritty looking, similar to the black sand that danced around his black-clad legs. A sharp, wide nose and a thin, dark line of a mouth adorned the man's triangular face, and his cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut steel, making his appearance similar to that of a crudely chiseled rock sculpture. Black, oil-slick hair shot out from the figure's head at a sharp angle, pointing towards the back; and in the middle of it all, two menacing candle-light eyes flickered, almost amused. Jack, met by a lack of verbal response, tried again. This time the slightest bit of uncertainty tinged his voice, and the words caught ever so slightly in his throat before making themselves heard. "Who are you?"

A corner of the man's razorblade-like mouth lifted slyly and he spoke, condescension dripping like syrup over his words. "I think you know. Not going to start with an introduction? That's a little rude, even for you, Frost." The man's voice was as dark as night and deeply silky, as alluring and mysterious as the shadows that he commanded. His lip curled up in a sneer at seeing Jack's look of shock at the mention of his name. "How do you know me?" Jack shot back, cerulean eyes narrowing in accusation. After a half-second of thought, he decided maybe he didn't want to know; this time he didn't wait for a reply. "Look. If you're just here to freak me out, fine. But I have things to do."

With that Jack turned on his heel, not interested in lingering around the dark man's presence any longer. He was admittedly intimidated, to say the least, and unease bit at him as he turned his back to the stranger and prepared to push off; there were always other places in need of winter. This didn't go quite as planned, however. Before the ball of Jack's right foot even left the ground he heard the stranger say something behind him—he spoke darkly, quietly, but the words came across just as threatening as if he had yelled them. Worse, Jack could almost _hear _the creep's sneer as he spoke.

"Not so fast, boy."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: This chapter is a little "boring", but I'm afraid it was necessary! Sorry guys! It took me long enough, that's for sure. Enjoy, read, and review! /AN**

**Chapter 3 – A Discovery**

Years Earlier

Pitch was brooding.

It had been decades—no, centuries—since he had been beaten by the cursed Guardians after the glorious Dark Ages; he spent this time alone in his lair, the company of his shrieking Fearlings getting old. How he longed for the screams of children instead, or even better, of the Guardians as they realized the very last lights were being snuffed out. The pure _anguish _they would experience when they came to know the meaning of the word _loneliness._ _Pain. Suffering. _Any and all of these words described the pain Pitch had been plagued with for the many, many long years he had been cursed with this desolate existence.

No doubt the big four, as vain as had become after the Dark Ages were abolished, were certain the Boogeyman was hiding away underground, licking his wounds and cowering in his domain—_fear_—but _oh_ how wrong they were. He _was_ underground, of course; the hole under a broken skeleton of a bed had been his hideout for many centuries, but cowering was not something Pitch was good at. He wouldn't allow himself to accept a loss.

Instead, he had spent these weak years planning, calculating, and scheming.

Pitch had reached one conclusion-the Guardians would be more than familiar with the ripping agony he felt every time a child ran through him; they would experience it firsthand soon enough. That was a promise from Pitch Black himself.

These thoughts, these promises, served as the spark that kept him going all these years and until this very moment as he descended a cracked, shadowy-black stone staircase within his lair. He rounded a corner, heels making a muffled shuffling sound on the cold floor as he reached the end of the steps. This was not your normal staircase, however; where a regular flight of stairs would end where they connected to the floor below, this one just ended-quite literally. Below the end of the staircase was simply…nothing. It dropped off into shadowy oblivion, a bottomless pit shrouded in darkness so thick that the brightest light could not pierce its tainted heart.

It was here that Pitch would learn of a being in existence, another spirit not unlike himself; one that lived in loneliness, in solitude. One that craved what he did; to be believed in.

Perched nonchalantly on the very edge of the staircase, toes hanging off the edge as if there _were _solid ground to catch his next step, the Boogeyman stretched out one long arm and held out one grey, spider-like hand. Like hounds responding to their master's call, Nightmares poured out from the depths and pressed their sandy muzzles into his open palm, fighting for his touch and whinnying shrilly in ecstasy and anticipation of the dark spirit's next command. Glowing yellow eyes shone like headlights as they broke through the shadowy brine that was their home.

"How are the nightmares coming along, my fearlings..?" Pitch murmured as he stroked through the sandy mane of a writhing Nightmare absentmindedly. Because of its origin, Nightmare sand shared a few of the same properties as the Sandman's golden dream sand; it allowed it's commander to catch a glimpse of the dreams—in this case, the nightmares—that it slipped into the subconscious minds of children fast asleep. The process of viewing them was simple, and Pitch liked to check up on the dark sand every couple hundred years to make sure there was enough fear in the nightmares it sparked. It had been a while since he had taken an inside peek at his precious creations; but today, he was bored. Without so much as a flick of the wrist, he gathered a handful of shimmering sand from the mane of the Nightmare he was petting and quickly withdrew his hand to avoid a nip from the horse-like creature's sharp teeth. The Nightmare let out a bloodcurdling shriek in protest, and then dissolved, disappearing into the writhing mass of hooves and tails.

"Shhh." Pitch whispered harshly, waving the whirlwind of Nightmares away. After he was satisfied with the noise level, the Boogeyman brought the dancing, shifting handful of sand closer, squinting his amber eyes and focusing his energy on the shimmering grains before him. After a couple of seconds, the sporadic twisting of the sand slowed and formed images that flickered before the Nightmare King like slides on a projector. Pitch let a razor-thin smile sneak across his angular face and coaxed the nightmare sand in his hands on with a gentle, hot breath, careful to blow softly enough as to not disturb the sand as it formed more vivid images. "That's it," he murmured. "Show me."

One by one, children's nightmares flicked across the palm of his hand, changing dreams every few seconds. They were similar to what they had been a couple hundred years ago; the fear wasn't as strong, of course, but it was there. It would _always_ be there. Pitch let his smile linger a moment more at this small comfort.

Images of monsters in closets and under beds, wild animals and the like darted about, confined to his open hand as if alive. The nightmares that the sand revealed were starting to bore him, however; children were so terribly _sheltered _these days. Not one of these brats had ever tasted real fear. _That will change soon_, he thought, tangible malice in the form of nightmare sand swimming about in his mind. Tired of the repetitive images, the Nightmare King prepared to discard the sand back into the depths of the bottomless drop-off, but one dream, different from the rest, stopped him in his tracks. Pitch leaned in closer to get a better look; what he saw perplexed him, to say the least. The nightmare sand had taken the shape of a boy, but not just any boy. The lanky figure, who looked to be a teenager, had snow-white hair. Pitch frowned—his nightmare sand _never _changed color like that, but there it was-a messy mop of white hair on top of the boy's head. Were human children even born like that? Pitch didn't think so. Furrowing his brow, the Boogeyman continued to watch the nightmare intently. The boy was falling slowly through something thick—water?—and tiny sand bubbles made their way out of his open mouth. Why wasn't he struggling? It took a moment to realize the child was most likely unconscious. The surface of the nightmare sand rippled and wavered, signaling the approach of another dream. "Not yet," Pitch hissed, intent on letting this strange nightmare unfold. At his command, the sand nightmare flickered once more but remained. The boy continued to fall, closer and closer to the Nightmare King's shadowy grey palm, and he gingerly let the little figure come to rest limply in his hand. As it did so, something in the atmosphere changed—a chill like an electric shock shot through the air around Pitch. With a series of sharp cracks that echoed in the abyss, white, glossy flecks of frost shot out from the tiny figure the second it touched down on his hand. Pitch hopped back in surprise as the cold flakes bit at his fingers, but he kept his palm open and watched, puzzled, as the figure in his hand froze_._ Yes, froze. White crept from the boy's hair across his body and to the rest of the scene with a final, sharp crack, and it was then that he flung the now solidified sand-ice sculpture from his hands and let it smash against the nearest wall. Shards of ice and bits of frost rained downwards where they began to melt in small puddles on the floor.

Of one thing was the Nightmare King certain as he frowned at the blemish that now marred the cracked, grey wall; that was _not _the nightmare of a mortal, let alone a human child. It had to be that of a spirit—a myth, like himself.

Pitch clenched his jaw, dissecting in his mind what he had just seen. He was certain he had kept tabs on all the other immortals in existence; how could this one have escaped his eye? That wasn't good. Was he missing other things as well? _No, _he thought. _This spirit is probably young—maybe just a couple hundred years or so…_It was true that he hadn't checked on his nightmares as often as he should have. That was usually how he came to know of the existences of other spirits; he would find them through their bad dreams. They always seemed to have unique qualities that discerned them from mortals' dreams, and this nightmare was _definitely _unique. Pitch exhaled sharply, the disciplined side of him kicking himself for his negligence. "Go," he hissed to the Nightmares in the shadows. "Find the boy. Come back when you know what he is." With that, the hoard of Nightmares shrieked in unison and galloped past the black-clad spirit, sending ripples running through his cloak and disappearing into the darkness behind him.

**Years Later**

Pitch learned of his name—Jack Frost. The boy was a mischievous winter spirit with a bad habit for causing trouble wherever he went; but he couldn't do much damage when no one could see him. _No one could see him. _He had learned this about Frost by accessing his nightmares, of course; the fears kept in the darkest crevices of the boy's mind revealed themselves to him without resistance. Pitch did this as easily as and thoughtlessly as if he were going through dresser drawers.

During all these years, Pitch was certain he was alone…no one could possibly know the pain he felt on a daily basis. It was agony, a raw, dripping wound that never healed, one that only a fellow spirit could understand. But this boy…he had been living for 300 years. Of course, that was nothing compared to Pitch's lifetime; but Jack Frost _knew how he felt_. The weak, cowardly Man in the Moon had dropped him off on this cursed Earth, no doubt without an explanation; a purposeless spirit. Two lonely souls wandering without reason, without believers…together, they could be _great. _He _had_ to get to Frost before the Guardians did. The Nightmare King knew all too well how much they liked to interfere.

After learning about and watching the winter spirit quietly for years, he was finally ready to make his introduction. And oh, would it be _grand_.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Ok, I feel like this chapter took **_**forever**_**, and I had a hard enough time starting it, but once I began just writing the rest flowed pretty easily. So, here's some more action for you! Enjoy, read, and review! Thanks!**

**Chapter 4 –You'll Come Undone**

Jack had already made it a couple of feet in the air, staff in hand, when he whirled once again to confront the owner of the threatening velvet voice. The winter spirit raised his weapon and glared once again, having had enough of the stranger. "Listen—"

His protests were abruptly cut short as a stream of shadowy sand broke free and shot from the writhing mass where the dark spirit stood.

Before he had a chance to think, the thin, gritty whip-like tendril of black sand curled and locked itself as tight as a vice around his ankle and yanked downward, slamming the winter spirit onto the forest floor where he lay sprawled on his back, winded and gasping for air. Jack's ribs groaned in protest and his lungs heaved to take in cold breath as he struggled to sit up. He swallowed hard when he looked up and realized the grey-skinned spirit no more than a foot away from where he lay propped up on his elbows, towering over him with a triumphant, less-than-friendly smile playing at the corner of sharp lips. "I'm glad you decided to stick around for a bit," the dark spirit purred, half an eye on the boy and half an eye on his grey fingernails. He seemed to disregard the seething white-haired teen that lay before him as if he _wasn't_ an imminent threat, his staff clutched tightly in hand and pale jaw clenched.

However, as many had learned before him, keeping only "half an eye" on Jack Frost was not a wise decision. In a flash the boy tilted onto his back, gaining the momentum he needed to spring up and onto his feet. With an unexpected, wild cry, Jack sent a blasting spray of blue ice shards that exploded from the crook of his staff the stranger's way.

Pitch was caught off guard. The boy was used to defending himself, certainly. Maybe he had underestimated his fellow spirit, for the time being. Pitch didn't wasn't terribly interested in a fight, but if that was what it had come down to, fine.

Because of the short distance between himself and the deadly staff the frost spirit wielded, the Nightmare King had less than a split second to sidestep the icy explosion, but with a nimble hop to the right managed to dodge the attack. The icy blast grazed past his left shoulder, sending a chill running down his entire left side. He snarled and advanced, brandishing his blade and preparing to at least give the boy a good bash on the head with the butt of it. However, Frost wasted no time in leaping back to put some distance between him and the Boogeyman before firing another icy explosion that crashed like an avalanche on the surrounding trees, knocking accumulated snow off of nearby branches in a flurry of white powder.

This time, Pitch tried another tactic. He used the cover of falling snow to drop into the ground as a shadow where he slunk across the surrounding tree trunks, half-hidden and potentially lethal in the dim light. He let a toothy grin split his face as he watched the boy spin on his heel, his eyes undoubtedly playing tricks on him in the twilight. The prickling of fear in the air was enough to fuel the Nightmare King as he lingered in his weaker shadow form. He spread to the ground, a dark silhouette against pearl-white snow, and slunk towards the boy who backpedaled after trying and failing to shoot the shadow form with a blast of ice. Fear was now clearly visible on Frost's pale face, and the cords in his neck strained as he startled, feeling his back pressed against the nearest tree. The boogeyman inched nearer until he swam _through_ both the boy and the piece of timber—and all that filled the dim air was silence and the sound of the winter spirit's jagged breathing.

_Oh, is this _fun, Pitch thought—it had certainly been a while since he had been able to scare anyone that could actually _see_ him. It was a special kind of treat, seeing his reflection in the winter spirit's clear blue, _pure _eyes. But the fun would have to come to an end, for now, anyway.

The shadow crept towards Jack, inch by inch along the snow-dusted ground, backing him up until he was neatly pinned against the trunk of a nearby tree. He had learned by now that his powers didn't work against shadows—he'd have to buy time until the malevolent spirit changed back into a tangible form—but plans for an escape melted like his own creations on a summer's day when the shadow dove straight _through _him where it disappeared out of Jack's peripheral vision.

The winter spirit froze, anxiety taking form and prickling up the back of his neck as he stood stock-still in the muffling silence that ensued. He took a second and allowed himself to breathe, air rushing out in small, ghostlike puffs that matched the rhythm his own drumming heartbeat. He _had _to get moving—this wasn't going anywhere good. However, Jack's thought process was interrupted once again as he heard the voice of the stranger—this time the tone was flat, almost bored, and it came from right behind him. Jack jumped and stiffened at the sudden proximity of the voice—it was being spoken directly into his ear. _"Frost._ I came to talk." The statement itself wouldn't have been threatening at all had it not been accompanied by the sound of a blade being drawn, like nails on a chalkboard.

A newly-formed lump rose in Jack's throat as the cold, sharp edge of the dark spirit's shadow scythe materialized centimeters away from his own neck, positioned directly over his throbbing jugular. He blinked and strained his eyes down to examine the blade—it shone black as an oil slick, and it seemed to be made of tiny, sparkling grains of sand that caught what little light was being filtered through the trees. Jack swallowed again, hard. His voice cracked a bit and the defiance in his words was gone as he chanced a quiet inquiry, tipping his jaw up slightly to distance his pale throat from the blade that currently rendered him and his staff immobile. "So…what happens now?"

"Tsk, tsk," came the mocking reply from over the winter spirit's shoulder. "Impatient, aren't we?" the dark spirit drawled. Jack grit his teeth before biting his tongue as he realized that back talking would most likely _not_ help the situation.

"Don't worry, little frost spirit." With that, Jack heard the spirit snap his fingers, and panic twanged through his core like an instrument as darkness crept inwards from the corners of his vision. The shadows slunk in, forcing his fear back down his throat as they smothered his consciousness and squeezed his mind shut with a strength he could not withstand. The last sensation Jack felt was that of falling backwards slowly, as if suspended in thick liquid, as he slumped limply to the ground. The dark spirit's last remark barely made it through his ears and to penetrate his mind, and it was as quiet as a whisper from above. "_Time will tell."_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long! School, basically. That is all. Leave reviews, tell me what you think! Thanks!**

**Chapter 5 – An Offer**

When Jack regained consciousness, he found himself still drifting behind the endless dark of closed eyelids. The cold around him felt familiar, comforting; and for a moment he didn't recall the events of hours previous. The winter spirit got as far as snuggling his head back into the folds of his hoodie before remembering he was not perched on a snowy tree branch or rooftop. Jack's stomach lurched at this realization and his eyes shot open, a small gasp followed by several deep breaths escaping the winter spirit as he fought to calm his nerves while scanning his surroundings.

The light was dim, and the gentle _ping, ping _of dripping water could be heard in the distance. It echoed in the darkness, and Jack had no idea how large the room was, but from the way the slightest noise was amplified, he could take a guess.

With a slight groan from the soreness in his midsection, the winter spirit propped himself upright, squinting in an attempt to penetrate the expanse of the chasm. The floor beneath him was cold, and Jack wondered absently whether the chill emanated from him, or the environment itself; it was moist to the touch, a clammy surface that set unease reeling in the pit of Jack's stomach. Then one sickening thought shot him straight into a near panic.

_My staff!_

"Oh no," he breathed as he scrambled and groped the floor in the darkness in search of the familiar, knotted wood of his beloved shepherd's crook. "No, no, no no _no_."

Anxiety seeped from Jack's pores as he all but crawled across the dark, damp floor, keeping one hand outstretched and touching the wall and the other searching the ground, tapping and running along it in the hopes of brushing against the wood. He shot a couple of small bursts of glowing frost from his fingertips, and the floral patterns crept across the dark floor, the bioluminescent properties of the not-your-average frost he wielded coming in handy in the dark chamber. The swirls of ice hadn't spread more than a couple feet before Jack laid a hand on something solid; something solid _other_ than the wall and floor. Hope rose and caught in his throat before dissipating as quickly as it had arisen when he crept closer and strained his eyes to see what his hand rested on.

They were a dark pair of boots, followed by black-clad legs and a shadowy robe that furled and unfurled as if it were made of smoke. Jack blinked before slowly raising his eyes to meet those that belonged to the creep that had stalked him out there in the forest. _Great._

The dark spirit was staring down his nose at the white-haired boy, an amused expression flickering across his angular face before being replaced moments later with a bored, emotionless slate. In one of his hands was clutched Jack's staff. The winter spirit nearly felt sick to his stomach—his fate was no longer in his own hands, and the stranger _knew _it. What could he want from him, anyway? The shadow-clad man twirled the hooked end absentmindedly as if he meant to entice the boy, keeping what would probably be his liberation just out of his reach. He then carefully removed his feet out from under Jack's searching hands and, in one fluid motion, bent over to pluck the winter spirit effortlessly off the ground by his hood before he had a chance to protest.

"Hey, hey _hey," _Jack managed as he teetered unsteadily on his heels, long legs sore from being folded in a crouched position for…who knows _how _long. The whole thing was extremely shady, really. And now this guy had his staff, which was just awesome. Icing on the cake.

Jack was balanced by a shadowy hand-like tendril that gripped his collar long enough to steady him before releasing its hold on the frosty fabric. "I do appreciate the groveling but _really_, that isn't necessary," the dark spirit stated with a low chuckle.

Jack glared up at him, a light blue shade unnoticeable in the dark dusting his pale cheeks. "That's funny. Really, though. _Who are you_? Not to mention, how can you _see _me? Want to give me back my staff? Yeah, probably a stupid question…"

The man held up one grey hand to halt the flow of questions from the boy. "The Boogeyman, King of Nightmares, the monster under the bed…" he started, taking Jack's staff in both hands and examining the wood while turning it over slowly as if trying to read every crevice as he spoke. Jack's fingers twitched—his shepherd's crook had been practically a part of the winter spirit since the Man in the Moon had put him in the world. Jack's mind reeled at the thought of his staff in an enemy's hands- It could be broken, burned, or the spirit simply could refuse to give it _back. _Jack didn't know what would happen if his staff was destroyed, but his guess was it wouldn't be good. The boy shoved his uncomfortable thoughts aside for the moment as the man continued. "…those are only a few of the names I have been given over the millennia." He paused. "As for your first three inquiries, they will be answered at a…later date."

Jack snorted, folding his arms over his chest. "I'm sure."

"I simply wanted to propose an offer of…partnership, of sorts," Said the Boogeyman. Jack cocked his head, scratching at the back of his hair absentmindedly before replying. "If you just wanted to talk, was the huge shiny weapon really necessary?" The dark man shrugged, sharp mouth drawn up slightly in a sneer. Jack continued. "The offer; what if I refuse?"

The Boogeyman closed his eyes, sharp teeth showing a bit as he let out a chuckle. He then turned his attention back to Jack as he leaned in closer for emphasis, golden eyes boring into the small-framed boy before him. "It wouldn't be wise for you." Penetrating eyes swiveled back to the staff that was clenched in his ashen hands before returning to the winter spirit, whose already pale skin tone had lightened noticeably, making his face appear gaunt in the dim light. He smiled to himself, watching the boy's Adam's apple bob with nerves while he considered the threat in his words.

Jack didn't like it, not one bit, but as long as this guy had his staff…it was hardly a choice.


End file.
